


Gift of the Mountie

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Fic, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, POV Third Person Limited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray is determined to give Fraser what he wants for their anniversary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gift of the Mountie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sineala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/gifts).



> Originally written for Sineala's [fandom-stocking](http://fandom-stocking.dreamwidth.org).

When Ray was a kid, his mom drilled into him that when you gave someone a present, it had to be something _they_ wanted, not just something you personally thought was cool. And it was _definitely_ cheating to get someone something you wanted yourself, so they’d share it with you. You couldn’t get Matchbox cars for Dad or take Mom to see James Bond. The point of presents was to make the other person happy.

Well, Mom would be proud of him today if she knew what he was planning to give Fraser for their anniversary.

See, originally, Ray _had_ been planning to arrange a hot date night. He’s been thinking about it for months, off and on. Dinner and dancing? One of those lake cruises, without Stella and Orsini and bombs this time? Find a quiet B &B a couple of hours over the border, somewhere with trees and stars? Definitely sex: creative, drawn-out, smoking hot sex. The anniversary’s on a Friday, so they wouldn’t have to be up early the next morning. Hell, if they wanted to, they could just lounge around the apartment naked all weekend.

But that was before the Consulate ended up hosting some kind of mega-important diplomatic hoopla with closed-door negotiations that Fraser isn’t allowed to talk to Ray about. After a week of running at full steam, managing the preparations, Fraser’s spending _this_ week on duty ten or twelve hours a day, politely wrangling cranky ambassadors, taking minutes of classified meetings, and making sure the coffee is hot and no one starts an international incident.

So he’s not going to want to get dressed up and go out on the town tonight. He’s not even going to want to stay in and do some elaborate romantic thing with soft music and bubble bath (what? Ray was married for years to a woman who taught him creative uses for froofy bath products). Fraser’s not going to want to stay up all night making love. What he’s going to want is to chow down on something quick and simple, get out of his dress uniform, take a long, hot shower, and collapse into bed. And then Fraser _does_ have to get up early in the morning on Saturday to escort some late-arriving bigwig in from the airport, so he’s going to want to get as much sleep as he can. Without his boyfriend pestering him for attention.

Now, no one’s ever accused Ray of being the most selfless guy on the block. But Goddamnit, he does understand the whole present-giving thing, and he’s going to do right by Fraser, who deserves it if anyone on Earth does. He’s going to give Fraser the R & R he so desperately needs tonight. A warm, loving hello, a couple of kisses (Ray’s not made of _stone_ , after all, and besides, Fraser really, really likes kissing). Dinner ready to eat when Fraser walks in the door, and then an early night, with Ray keeping his hands to himself. (And his mouth. And assorted other body parts.) If he can figure out some way to beat Fraser out of bed in the morning to get the coffee started, that’ll be a bonus.

He can do this, he tells himself for the umpteenth time. He can. It doesn’t matter how horny and lonely he is after a week of no sex and barely seeing Fraser more than to say Good Night and Good Morning. It doesn’t matter how much he was looking forward to celebrating their first year together as more than friends. The important thing is to give Fraser the kind of present that will show him just how much Ray cares about him. The break-the-bed sex and the fancy dinner and the rest of it will keep; this won’t the only anniversary they ever have. Not if Ray has anything to say about it.

He’s managed to psych himself into almost a chipper mood by the time he gets home, because that’s part of the present, too. He can’t mope around like a martyr; that’d be worse than not bothering in the first place. Focus on the steps of the plan, that’s the key: dinner, maybe some nice soothing classical background music, give Frase a nice warm welcome, and then get out of his hair. Piece of cake.

So he’s thinking about soup and grilled cheese, and _not thinking about sex, damn it,_ as he unlocks the door. And then he just stands there with the keys in his hand, wondering if he’s somehow managed to walk into the wrong apartment.

The room is softly lit with about a million glowing candles, and Sarah McLachlan is singing wistfully from the stereo, and the table’s set with Ray’s grandma’s lace tablecloth and a vase of purple irises and something that’s got to be a fondue pot (which Ray doesn’t even own one of). The air smells like candlesmoke and bread and chocolate.

And Fraser is advancing on him—Fraser, wrapped in the silk bathrobe Ray got him for a kind-of-joke-kind-of-not last Christmas, which Ray has never seen him wear before—Fraser, in a bathrobe and nothing else, freshly shaved, his damp hair curling messily over his forehead. He looks a little self-conscious and a little eager, and a hundred percent edible.

Ray just stands there blinking stupidly at him for a second, but only for a second, because after that, Fraser’s reeling him in and kissing him like a house on fire. Ray gives back as good as he’s getting—he may be confused, but he’d have to be _dead_ not to respond to Fraser’s kisses. When they break for air, both of them breathing hard, Ray buries his face in Fraser’s neck and breathes him in.

“Happy anniversary,” Fraser says huskily in his ear, and Ray squeezes those solid, silk-covered ribs as tight as he can, because another thing his mom always taught him was never to look a gift horse in the mouth.


End file.
